The Color of Blood
by The ACS Dude
Summary: The seventh pass was largely unremarkable for most. Thread fell in a relentless fifty year span, just as it had six times prior. However, for young Coron of High Reaches Hold, the early seventh pass will hold sorrow, secrets, blood, and perhaps a dragon.
1. Prologue

/**Author's Comments:**

First and foremost, the all-important disclaimer: I do own neither the world of Pern nor the Dragonriders of Pern series and story concept. They are the property of Anne McCaffery and associated publishers and writers. This disclaimer applies not only to the chapter, but to the whole story.

Also, the following chapter contains detailed descriptions of swordsmanship. I know nothing about swordsmanship, and all of the techniques described below are purely fictional. Do not use them for self-defense.

So, this is my second running fanfiction, alongside the Rogue of Pern. Note that the following chapter warrants the rating of T for violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Please give me feedback and tell me what you think of the story so far. I've got the first few chapters mapped out, but, as always, I'd really like suggestions from the fans.

Also, be it noted: when I say "the good man", I don't mean that he is inherently good, or good at what he does. I mean it as though its the figure of speech.

And, also, I figured out how to make POV/time breaks properly! There's only one in this chapter, but it should look right this time.

Notes On Pronunciation: the name "Coron" is pronounced like the English name "Corin".

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 2:48:12 AM (GMT), December 2, 2006

Drafting Ended: 7:30:00 PM (GMT), December 3, 2006

Uploaded: 7:42:04 PM (GMT), December 3, 2006

The Color of Blood

Prologue

High Reaches Hold

Seventh Pass, 12.6.1

Afternoon (Fort Time)

"Remember, its a movement of the arm that executes this blocking manuever. If you uncurl your arm, it reduces the power of your thrust." Master-at-Arms Arando, captain of the High Reaches guard, was an accomplished warrior, and, in the early hours of the afternoon, the sole teacher of soldiery in the mighty Hold. The man literally towered above the ground: at almost nine hands – two hundred and ten centimeters – he was easily the largest man in all the High Reaches, if not in all Pern. His swordsmanship lessons were _nothing_ like Master Harper Kial's. Kial had a tendency to drone, but put all of the important teachings and ballads into a beautiful lyrical verse that you simply couldn't forget. Still, Coron had to admit to himself, Kial could be boring at times, and there had been once or twice when Coron had dozed off during class. Arando was different. You didn't _dare_ ignore Arando.

The good soldier had stripped off his tunic, revealing his undershirt, and demonstrated the tatic he had described moments earlier, amazingly graceful and swift for someone of his awesome size. During guard duty, Arando could been seen bearing no fewer than four handaxes and tomahawks on various parts of his body, in addition to a massive battleaxe and a belt-knife the size of a wherry-skewer. During training, his heavily muscled arms put down the real weapons and took up the wooden practice swords. It was odd how the sparring tool looked, in Arando's hands, just as frightening as the colossal axe that, Coron was sure, could cleave solid stone.

"EYES HERE!" bellowed the Master-at-Arms, inspiring a jump from the class, and probably, the entire hold. "Your lives," said the man slowly, for emphasis, "could very well one day depend on what I am showing you now." It sometimes amazed Coron that even Razan, Lord Holder Triten's conceited eldest son (and one of Coron's classmates), jumped when Arando called. Then Coron remembered how even the Lord Holder had stopped gibbering and listened to the Weapons Master when Temmen Hold, beholden to High Reaches, had been invaded by Nabol troops, one turn ago. The day afterwards, sparring lessons had started.

Arando let his arm relax, flat of the wooden sword drawn protectively across his chest. "This is, in my opinion, one of the reactive stances you could adopt. If you are fighting a lone opponent, it would be wise to position yourself in this way as you try to analyze his swordsmanship style. Now, if I were trying to block, all I'd have to do is draw my arm back or slide it to one side. I'll demostrate. RAZAN! On your feet!" The boy, sixteen turns in age, was standing so quickly that Coron wasn't quite sure how he had managed to spring up. Razan drew own wooden sword.

"Now Razan, I want you to make one stroke at me. Just one stroke. I'll demonstrate the effectiveness of this technique."

Razan was the oldest in the class, at fifteen turns, and was first in line of succession to High Reaches Hold and all the land it controlled. Moreover, he seemed to love swordsmanship and took great pride in his own ability. Though he was a recklessly aggressive fighter, his immense weight and total disregard for his own safety made him dangerous. If Arando could block an attack from Razan, it proved the merit of the technique.

The two men touched the tip of their swords and then hit the flats together, signifying the start of the match. Arando immediately took up the defensive stance, while Razan, howling like a demon, launched himself at the weapons master. Yet his thrust wasn't as uncontrolled as it originally seemed. The charge turned into a feint as the Lord Holder's son turned the side-slash into an overhand attack, all his weight behind it. Arando brought his weapon up to block, one hand on the hilt, the other supporting the flat. Razan bounced off, though Arando's sword visible deformed.

The fight was over, just like that. The Master-at-Arms was left shaking his head at the training tool. "I could swear for a moment that this was going to break. Well done, Razan. I didn't see the feint coming. You're learning discretion." The boy was panting, face flushed with exertion and failure. He wasn't known for his temper, but no one had really expected him to outdo Arando. Any other person in the hold, save perhaps Lord Holder Triten or one of Razan's brothers, would have suffered greatly for showing up the successor to the High Reaches.

Arando faced the class. "That's how you keep yourself alive. Pair up. You're going to practice this stance until you get it right. Mean time, I'm going to get this piece of trash replaced." The man looked at the bent sword with disdain.

Coron had the good fortune to find himself practicing with Hennel, Lord Triten's youngest son, quieter and more mild-mannered than his older brother. He and Hennel were the same age – eleven turns – and roughly the same height and body weight. They often sparred together during class, as each judged the other to be an even match. Hennel might well have been Coron's best friend, simply because there were no other boys of their age and status in the Hold. Coron was the only son of Holder Legault, and was hence destined to inherit his father's extremely profitable Beastmasterhold. Because Legault was one of the most prominent and powerful minor holders under the High Reaches banner, Coron was schooled and trained with the Lord Holder's sons as though he was their equal.

As far as Hennel went, he was the youngest of three brothers, and hence third in line for succession to the hold. He would technically be considered at Conclave as a potential Lord Holder, but once Triten retired or died, general consensus was that Razan would be ratified, leaving Hennel as a Holder somewhere, but not the Lord Holder. Arando, however, saw all of his pupils equally: as people smaller than he was. As a result, the Master-At-Arms insisted that the two train just as hard as Razan or any of the other younger children. When they were feeling tired, Arando reminded them that, even though it was a Pass, High Reaches was at war, and it might be tomorrow that column of Nabolese troops came knocking at the Hold door. That sent them scurrying back to their training weapons.

One hard, sweaty hour passed before Arando returned with a new wooden weapon, possibly newly carved. The massive man surveyed the training arena before resuming his usual habit of barking orders. "Take a break, everyone. We start again in half-an-hour. Get some water." Hennel had never looked happier. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he ran out of the room, probably to find a drink. As for Coron, he took a deep breath. Time to talk to Arando. Slowly, the young boy half-tiptoed towards the weapons master's back, wondering why the man had to be so tall...

"Yes lad?" asked Arando surprisingly softly, as he collected a discarded wooden sword.

"Erm... well, sir..."

"Come now, Coron, don't be shy." Arando still hadn't turned to face him. Coron knew the man well, but was hesitant to ask him about this. The guard captain might think it arrogant and presumptuous.

"Well, sir, I've think I've developed a new sword stance."

"Really now?" Arando turned to face him, and, to Coron's amazement, he was smiling. "Let's see it." Coron gulped. He wanted to see it? Coron had just dreamt the technique up. Hennel thought it had been brilliant, but Hennel's admiration meant nothing in the face of Arando's scrutiny.

Trying to stay calm, Coron drew his own wooden sword from under his armpit and set the flat of the blade perpendicular to the ground in a two-handed grip, and cocked his right arm back. He sunk into a half-crouch, and tried to keep the blade steady. Arando brandished the blade he had collected thrust it forward.

At first Coron though the man wanted him to counter, but the Master-at-Arms quickly withdrew the weapon, and began to mutter to himself. Then, almost without warning, he thrust the blade again, and stepped back just as quickly. Coron realized that Arando must be evaluating the stance mentally.

After a series of other probes, the guard captain began to circle Coron, occasionally pointing or tapping the boy with his sword. Eventually, just as Coron thought his leg muscles would cramp from sustaining the stance, Arando spoke.

"Interesting. Here." He approached the student and wrenched the boy's left hand from the hilt of the weapon and repositioned it, outstretched, at the tip. The Master-at-Arms then stepped back and nodded.

"You don't need the strength of two hands behind that stroke. Better to use your non-dominant hand to guide the blade. If you grab the flat just so, you can avoid injury and have a deadly precise stroke. Now listen here. This stance you've created doesn't have any obvious weaknesses, but you need to be quick on your feet of use it. Can you tell me why?"

"Well..." Coron had given that some thought, and only vaguely understood it himself. "I'm using the sword like a skewer, in one sense. If you were to block, no matter how you did so, I could maneuver the blade around the block with ease, but I'd need to be fast to do so. If you counterattack, I could knock the stroke aside and retain the inside, leaving your chest exposed."

"Exactly," said Arando. Coron felt a well of relief bubble up inside of himself. "You didn't realize that you could also treat a block like a counterattack and knock it aside as well. Your main problem comes if you opponent tries to dodge you. You have to pivot faster than he can sidestep, but you can retain the stance while turning. Now, this isn't half as effective against an opponent with a shield, and a weapon with a longer reach would render the stance useless, but in a bout of sword against sword... I'll tell you what, Coron. I want you to test this stance against Razan."

"Sir?" asked Coron, hoping he'd heard incorrectly.

"Against Razan. Look, child: Razan has roughly the same height, weight, and recklessness as the average Nabol soldier. This is the proving grounds for this stance of yours." Coron gulped. This was a lose-lose situation. If he lost the match, he was publicly humiliated, and his stance probably wouldn't be viable in Arando's eyes. If he won... well, Razan would have his own way of exacting revenge. But, you didn't say "no" to a man whose tactical genius and strength of upper body had saved the High Reaches.

Coron slumped to his knees and sat in stunned silence, trying to divine a way out of his present quandary. Razan would have no reservations about beating Coron, alongside a "pal" or two if the fight went to the younger boy. But could he even win? For the past month or so, Coron had been tinkering with the idea of the stance, seeing the strength behind it. But was it enough to break through Razan's aggressive tactics?

Lost in thought, Coron hardly noticed as the other trainees, and, eventually, Razan, filtered into the room. He hardly heard Arando explaining the "exhibition bout" to the Lord Holder's son. What did knock Coron out of his stupor was Razan's malicious laugh. "That runt? I'll crush him into the floor!" Coron gulped again. When he dared to look up, High Reaches' successor was holding a wooden sword and wearing an evil grin. "Come on runt! Up! Time to show you what real swordplay is!" Coron tried to stand, but felt his legs giving out from under him. Arando walked over and helped him to feet. The weight of the Weapon's Master's hand felt somehow reassuring – he was hoping Coron would win. That was an encouraging thought. Somewhat shakily, with Arando's help, Coron regained his footing.

"Don't let him scare you with his talk." A whisper in his ear. "If he intimidates you, he's already won." One last strong pat on the should, and Arando stepped back.

"BEGIN!"

The two slapped the flats of their swords, and the sparring started. Coron immediately set his blade perpendicular to the ground, sinking into his stance. Arando had been right. With the left hand steadying the blade, it was much easier to guide. He really needed to invent a name for it. Call it something. Coron mentally slapped himself. He was distracting himself from reality. And, perhaps, the inevitable.

Razan came at him in the same way that a dragon comes at a wherry. He lashed out as he charged, in an overhanded sweep. Coron prepared to counter...

At the last second, Razan switched his strike to an overarching side slash from the right. Though his maneuver had been fast as lightening, the flexibility of Coron's stance saved him. The boy jumped back, maintaining stance, as Razan's stroke fell a fraction of a eighth-hand short. As the man followed through, he left his chest exposed. Coron charged through the opening...

"THIS MATCH IS OVER." Arando's below had probably woken the watchweyr. "The winner is: Coron!"

There was stunned silence. Disbelievingly, Coron was still staring at his sword. While Razan's guard was wide open, Coron had guided his sword directly to the other man's heart. Weapon positioned like a skewer, Coron still had yet to unfurl his arm, which would have been the killing stroke, driving the sword through his opponent's chest. Razan's face was already turning red. The Lord Holder's son pulled out of his temporarily frozen position and turned to appeal to Arando.

"But Master, I could have taken him down with another sidestroke. Just a second longer..."

The guard captain drew his own wooden sword and tapped Razan's chest with it. "You can't fight when you're dead, son." He turned to the class in general. "The point of this little exhibition bout was to show you that the best defense is not always a good offense. You have to be quick, smart, nimble on your feet, and you need to know how to defend yourselves. Now, pair up again. I'm going to watch and assess each person's ability. When I think you've got it down, you can leave. Got it?"

Coron had barely heard a word of Arando's speech. His gaze was locked with Razan's furious stare. The blood drained from Coron's face as he thought of the man's retribution. Coron would pay for his moment of glory, and his defeat of a boy four turns older than he.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded Arando. "HOP TO IT!"

They hopped to it.

* * *

Half an hour later, Coron walked out of the training arena, sweating profusely. He took a drink of _klah_ from the skin that Hennel had offered, and dried his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. They had been among the last to leave, because Arando had started with the older students. Coron was grateful for that, because Razan had been among the first to leave. He might have reached the end of patience waiting and run off to do something else. If that was the case, Coron had avoided a beating for the day. 

After a minute or two of walking, Hennel said his goodbye for the afternoon and went off to his quarters. Come to think of it, he, Coron, should be going home as well. It was getting late. Fortunately, his father's hold was just outside the main Hold, only a few minutes' walk. Coron turned down a corridor to take the usual shortcut he used, leave by way of the kitchens... The door to the kitchens was locked. Odd. Well, he could double back around and...

"Hello, Runt." Coron gulped. He knew that voice.

Sure enough, there, behind him, was Razan, blocking the only way out of the corridor. Coron could scream for help, but it would likely do no good, as Lord Holder Triten let his successor act with impunity around the hold. What was odd was that Razan was alone. He usually would have brought a "friend" or two. And he was carrying.

The significance of what he was carrying sunk in. Those were real swords, sheathed in the colors of High Reaches. The man had gone to the armory and pilfered swords. Was Razan trying to kill him? And then the significance of _that_ sunk in. Maybe he was.

Razan dropped one sheathed weapon and kicked it towards Coron. "You think you're pretty smart with a wooden sword, don't ya? Well, let's see what you can with the weight of real sword! Show me that stance of yours again."

Coron drew the blade, and, in the light of the glows, could see the smithcrafthall seal. It was sharp, and real. And so heavy! He could only just barely hold it in one shaky hand. His heart began to pound in his chest as he clumsily set the flat of the sword perpendicular to the ground. Luckily, his left hand helped to steady the blade. He just had to be sure that he didn't cut himself!

The other boy looked at Coron's stance, and an evil grin filled his face. "You see, Runt," he stressed the third word noticeably, "I happen to disagree with Master Arando on one count, with all due respect to him. I think that the best defense _is_ a good offense, and I intend to prove it." Coron gulped and felt the blood drain from his face. A real fight? With real swords? Someone could get hurt! As he surveyed his surroundings, Coron realized it would probably be him.

Razan had choosen this corridor, the other boy guessed, because it was narrow. That gave Coron little room to maneuver or dodge, except backwards. And in no time at all Razan would have pushed him back to the kitchen door. He was doomed. Coron nearly broke up in tears. He didn't want to die here!

Arando's words came unbidden to Coron's mind. "Don't let him scare you with his talk. If he intimidates you, he's already won."Alright then. Coron forced himself to calm down. He just needed to find a way out of, or to survive this mess. If he couldn't step left or right... there was a third option, he realized.

Razan drew his sword excruciatingly slowly, allowing the sound of metal grating against leather to fill Coron's ears. "No tricks this time, Runt. No feints. Just one slash." With an evil grin, Razan came at him.

Time seemed to temporarily slow to a standstill. Razan had his sword posed for a sidestroke, starting at high right and dropping to low left. If that was the case, Coron had one chance.

At the very last second, Coron ducked down and to the right, under the sword stroke, and carried through upwards, leaving the tip of his very real sword on the left side of Razan's chest (Coron's right). Razan had left himself exposed, yet again, and the younger, faster boy had exploited the opening. Razan would have to surrender now! With the tip of Coron's weapon on his tunic, the successor to the High Reaches was in a position to lose his life.

"Why YOU RUNT! I'll..." Razan began to bring his sword down in another stroke. Coron yelped in fear and instinctively pushed upwards with his arm. Whatever Razan had been about to say, it had been replaced with a unintelligible, guttural choke. A warm liquid trickled down Coron's hand and arm. A sword clattered to the ground. Coron's mouth dropped open as Razan slumped to his knees. The only thing that had stopped Coron's blade's progress through Razan's body was the hilt of the weapon, which had stopped at his chest. The sword was literally visible out the other side of the man's body.

Coron let go of the weapon and scampered as far as he could away from the body, towards the entrance of the corridor, while remaining in the corridor itself. How much blood did the human body have in it? The liquid was trickling out of Razan's wound and pooling near his feet. In the dim light of the glows it looked almost like it was dark purple, or even black.

Coron heard the sound of approaching footfalls. He was rooted to the spot, oddly calm. He was out of, yet still in, immediate danger. The footsteps grew louder. Mentally, he knew he done for, yet he still felt perfectly fine, probably more awake and alive than he ever had before. The smell, though, and the sight of the corpse... That was enough to make bile rise in his throat.

Master Arando and a guard Coron didn't know by name burst around the corner of the backwater corridor. For one long moment there was absolute silence.

"By the void that spawned us all," whispered Arando. Coron had never heard the Master-at-Arms whisper before. "I thought I heard shouting." Then, the man seemed to regain composure. "Don't just stand there!" he barked at the other guard. "Check Razan's vitals!"

Arando seemed to have the same effect on children and grown men. The guard broke out of his stupor and ran towards the fallen man. Coron knew it was too late, though. Slowly, the boy tilted his head to face the weapons master, and was surprised to find the man kneeling before him, looking him in the eyes.

"Did you do this?" Coron nodded slowly. There was another silence.

Eventually, the other guard's voice broke the ominously still air. "He's dead. No doubt about it. Sword pierced his heart."

"I think I know what happened," said Arando. "Let me guess. All you have to do is nod if I'm right. Don't try to talk." Coron nodded.

"You defeated Razan this afternoon in sparring practice, so he came after you. He cornered you in this sorry alleyway and tried to redeem himself, in his own mind, for his loss. He didn't change his style but just tried to intimidate you. He brought real swords with him." Coron nodded.

"You didn't fall for his tricks and got him into a position where you could kill him if you wanted to. Razan, being as bull-headed as a drow-beast, tried to keep fighting, and you stabbed him. Right?" Coron nodded one last time.

"I knew that that idiot was going to get himself killed one day. I just never dreamed like this. I don't blame you, son."

The other guard spoke up slowly. "With respect Master Arando, you may not blame the young man, but I doubt that Lord Holder Triten will share your view. He loved the boy." The man gestured at Razan's sprawled form. "He always said that Razan was destined to lord over the High Reaches. You know the law, Arando. Triten'll see this as murder, and murder of a Lord Holder's kin is treason, and treason is punishable by execution. Execution during..."

"I do know the law," said Arando softly. "Treason is punishable by execution by leaving the traitor chained outside during Threadfall. I know."

"Lord Triten will have it done in a second. He'll go crazy when he hears Razan has been murdered."

"That's why we're not going to tell him who killed the boy."

"Once again, with respect, captain, if we don't tell him and he finds out on his own, he could order you executed as well."

"As of right now, guardsman, the only people who know are we three. Coron won't tell anyone on the pain of death. And I won't tell anyone either. That leaves you, soldier. And if word somehow gets out..."

"I'd never do such a thing, captain."

"Good. Then help me get this boy to my quarters. Quickly now."

Coron seemed to have lost his legs, but Arando and the other man carried him, by some backwater route that he didn't know existed, to the Master-at-Arm's quarters. The scenery passed in a blur. All Coron could think about was the corpse, the smell, the blood. He felt bile rising in his throat again. He didn't even notice that he was laying on Arando's gigantic bed.

"Get the chamberpot, and be quick about it," said Arando.

"Why?" asked the guard.

"Just do it."

A moment later, Coron was sitting up in the bed, the chamberpot in his hands. The boy opened his mouth and spilled the contents of his lunch into the pot, and groaned. The vomit reeked, but it was no where near as bad as the smell of blood. Arando was patting him on the back, Coron realized.

Quietly, Arando spoke up again. "Have you ever killed a man?" he asked the other guard.

"No sir, I can't say that I have."

"I have. It's not pleasant. Even on the battlefield. Not pleasant at all. And look at Coron! He can't be older than eleven turns. Come on, lad. We've got wash your arm off."

Coron looked down and vaguely realized that his right arm and hand were stained red. Luckily, his shirt was short-sleeved, and no blood had leaked onto his clothing. That would have been nigh-on impossible to explain.

The cold water seemed to snap Coron out of shock. After Arando splashed some water on his face, he began to clean his arm on his own. The basin took on a light reddish tinge. Arando left him to washing as he went back and addressed the other guard.

"Soldier!"

"Sir!"

"Go to the Lord Holder's quarters, and inform him that his son is dead."

"Master Arando, at this time of day, Lord Triten is studying in his private chambers. Guards are posted at his door with orders not to let him be disturbed."

"The guards be Thread-bared and Lord Triten's privacy be Thread-bared. Tell the guards that the Lord Holder's eldest son is dead. That should get them out of the way. Now, are you going to go, or do I have to do it for you?"

"With respect, captain, Lord Triten is not going to take this well. I think you should come with me."

Arando sighed as he saw the logic. "Very well. Coron! Do not leave the room. Stay here. We'll be back." The two walked out of the Master-at-Arm's quarters, leaving the boy alone.

Coron spent some time just staring into the basin of water, looking at his own dark hair and eyes, tinted an ominous red by Razan's blood. Eventually he started to cry, soundlessly. Tears, reluctant and grudging at first, began to stream freely down his cheeks. He was crying out of fear and uncertainty. Crying because Razan, for all his defects, hadn't deserved to die. Crying because the blood was on his hands. Crying because he wanted to live, and didn't want to be left out in a Fall.

It might have been five minutes before Arando returned, or it might have been all night. The Master-at-Arms wordlessly poured the bloody water down the drain pipe, which led to High Reaches River. Then, he shoved a skin of _klah_ into Coron's hands and began to lead the boy out of the Hold.

Coron drank deeply from the skin, and the liquid gave him strength. He sunk back into a stupor, but was vaguely aware that Arando was leading him back to his father's hold. He was also aware that he was still crying. Arando didn't say a word until the door to the hold swung open, after several judicious knocks from the Master-at-Arm's fists.

Holder Legault himself, Coron's father, opened the door.

"Coron! Where, by the First Shell, have you been? Do you know how late it is?" Then his father's tone softened. "Have you been crying. And Master Arando," he said the name as if he'd only first noticed the mountain of a man, "why did you bring him? He didn't commit a crime, did he?"

"No, not at all, Holder. Something terrible has happened at the Hold, but Coron wasn't involved. Razan is dead." Legault gasped.

"Murder, in fact. For a spell, no one was let in or out of High Reaches. I'm here because the Lord Holder requests your presence at the funeral two days from now."

"Yes. Of course. By the void that spawned us all, how did Razan die?"

"Sword wound through the heart. Pinpoint strike. Might have been a skilled assassin, might have been luck. Razan somehow armed himself before the attack, but he died all the same."

"By Faranth's shell. Get to bed, Coron. I'm going down to the High Reaches."

Coron obeyed his father's order without question, barely pausing to strip off his dirty clothes before climbing into his furs. But he couldn't sleep. Whenever he was about to doze, the memory of Razan's corpse returned to him.

The following day, Coron meekly asked his father if he could quit sparring class. His father refused. If assassins were about, he said, it was of the essence that Coron learn to defend himself.

Coron went off to class in the normal manner, but no one seemed able to focus. Master Harper Kial nearly cried when he saw Razan's vacant chair, and later adjourned class early, after he'd been unable to recite one of the Learning Songs without breaking into tears.

Master Arando started the afternoon lessons in just the same way as always, using Razan's death as just another reason why they all needed to learn swordsmanship. The titantic man treated Coron differently, somehow, though. His words were softer towards him, and there was something in Arando's eyes that Coron couldn't put his finger on. Pity? The weapon's master insisted that Coron continue to practice and refine the stance he had developed, though Coron's heart had left the class of swordsmanship altogether.

That night, Coron couldn't sleep. Nor could he the following day, on the day of the funeral. Nor the day after. For nearly a month after Razan's death, Coron never got a good night's rest. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see nothing but the corpse. The smell. The purple-black color of the blood.

/So that's the prologue. Yes, you read the chapter information correctly: I wrote this this in less than two days.

It was a tad dark, but I think it was well-written, and I'm happy with it. Still, maybe not for readers with a weak stomach. This is my second fic that I've published on this year, so I'd really appreciate reviews. Also, please remember, I'm open to plot ideas! As I said earlier, I've got the first few chapters mapped out, but after that, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the story. Obviously, dragons become involved at some point, or I wouldn't have set it on Pern! (By the way, my writing style is often something along these lines: write the prompt and prologue first, worry about the later chapters when you get to them.)

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	2. Chapter 1: Gray

/**Author's Comments:**

Firstly, I am required by law and by the rules of to renew my disclaimer from the first chapter. I do not own Pern, and I do not own the Dragonriders of Pern series. Please consult the original disclaimer in the preceding chapter for slightly more information.

Secondly, a very merry (if extremely belated) Christmas and a wondeful to new year to everyone. In celebration, I've published the second chapter of my second fanfiction: the Color of Blood. Please note that this chapter is not, once again, not as intense as the first chapter, and can be read with impunity.

Also, the time system works in the fashion: Years. Months. Days in my writing. (Ie: 15.1.12 is the fifteenth turn, first month, twelvth day of that month.)

Notes on Pronunciation: the name "Coron" is pronounced like the English name "Corin".

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 11:37:30 PM (GMT), December 24, 2006

Drafting Ended: 5:30:52 PM (GMT), February 3, 2007

Uploaded: 5:47:32 PM (GMT), February 3, 2007

First Speaker Raven's Definition of Search, _A Treatise on Meaning_

_Search means to look for or seek, with the object or purpose of the search defined as a particular object, entity, or being, or any object, entity, or being that falls within a certain set of parameters. Often, the latter meaning is used in conjunction with the word "search" when any number of objects, entities, or beings will do, but the line between the objects of the search can blur. If the former definition is used, but another object that lies within the corporeal bounds of the search matches the sought object so closely as to be indistinguishable from the true object, then, in reality, it is exceeding likely that the first definition could merge with the second, as either object would no doubt serve the purpose for which it was searched out._

_Another, less frequently used definition of 'search" is an offshoot of the conventional one, where an organization or other entity will try to locate the singular object, entity, or beings that best fits a certain set of parameters, as defined by the organization and as judged by a panel of experts, public opinion, or other system of evaluation. Though the judging need not be impartial, all such searches may be one-time or repeated, and, the organization or entity may, especially in the context of a search for a being, transform their search into a proper noun, using the capital form of the word: "Search"._

The Color of Blood

Chapter 1: Gray

High Reaches Hold

Seventh Pass, 15.1.12

Late Morning (High Reaches Time)

Two and a Half Turns Later

"It's cold today, Arando."

"Cold. And hard."

"The sea is calm."

"Yes, but the wind chills to the bone. Are you sure that you'd not like a heavier coat, sir?"

"No, I'm quite alright, Captain. Thank you for asking."

Lord Holder Triten had risen late today, his heart heavy, his head throbbing with a hangover. He had been enjoying his morning meal, not quite full clothed, when a frantic messenger had charged into his quarters with an urgent message from Guard Captain Arando. Dragons were in the sky. Many dragons. Triten, who held dominion over all the High Reaches, had struggled from his breakfast table and pulled a wool sweater over his tunic to meet the approaching dragonmen. He had heard that a clutch was hardening on the Hatching Ground sands, but he hadn't been expecting Searchers so soon. It was well-known that the revered dragonmen of High Reaches Weyr preferred their own offspring to hold and craftbred men and women. Normally, this would have been a very happy occasion, that High Reaches Hold had been honored by a Search, but Triten's mood fell considerably short of jubilant. And he knew exactly why.

Yesterday, the eleventh day after Turnover, was his, Lord Holder Triten's birthday. He had turned sixty yesterday, the day he had planned to retire and officially nominate Razan as his successor. Razan, Razan... Two and a half turns ago, the dear boy had turned up dead in a back alley by the kitchen. And that throbbing pain in Triten's chest had started. That throbbing, whining pain that never quite died. That pain that had been renewed, in full force, yesterday. Triten fancied that he was feeling the sword that had pierced Razan's heart. Little consolation that the strike had killed his son near-instantly. The boy had been a natural leader, the perfect man to succeed Triten himself, and now was dead. No matter who or what someone was in life, they were just a corpse when they died. Razan was a corpse now, and he wasn't coming back. So, yesterday, what should have been the greatest day of Razan's life, Triten had gotten quitely drunk, listening to the passing birthday congratulations of friends and small holders.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Arando?"

"Is something wrong, sir? You look troubled."

"Nothing, Arando." Lord Triten placed his hand over his heart and half-smiled, half-grimaced. "Just an old wound."

Arando looked at Triten as though he understood the hidden meaning. "I'm sorry for you, Lord Holder, and I know the pain of old wounds, but I must ask you to bear the hurt for a while longer. We have honored guests to greet."

Triten nodded. Arando, now approaching fourty himself, had a clear head. And, as always, his advice was wise. Above them were a dozen dragons, a lone brown at the wing's fore. The last time dragonmen had appeared in the sky above High Reaches for reasons other than Thread had been a turn ago, to return Triten and Arando after prolonged peace talks at Riverbend Hold . The Riverbend Armistice now kept the peace with Nabol hold, because though neither side had wanted to end the conflict, the Weyrleaders of Fort and High Reaches had jointly threatened to stop flying Thread over the lands of the warring factions. Triten, for one, had been very reluctant indeed. Though ever scrap of evidence seemed to say otherwise, the Lord Holder still held the belief that Razan had been killed by a Nabol assassin.

Dragons were truly breathtaking. Only a few select times in Triten's life had a full wing visited the hold, but the sight of the flying mounts swooping down was one that every man kept with him for the rest of his life. In one fluid motion, the entire wing simultaneously switched from a controlled glide downwards into a landing backwing, meeting the ground before them in refined and practiced grace. Triten marveled at how easily the majestic creatures had stayed in formation, even through the landing.

He could now see the faces of the legendary dragonmen. All seemed to be exceedingly tall and handsome, as stereotype dictated, glory magnified a hundred times against the hides of their dragons. Triten had perhaps been the only in the High Reaches who hadn't at one time wished to be a dragonrider (for he had been destined for a greater honor), but every friend and cohort he had had, at one time or another, entertained the notion. And now, those boys would get the chance. Triten personally fancied Hennel, his youngest son, as a dragonrider. He might not have shared his brother Razan's fierce spirit, but he was a cool-headed and stable youth, gentle and intelligent.

The wingleader, a broad-shouldered, dark man made a hand signal, and every rider began to dismount. Simultaneously, Weapons Master Arando bellowed, "PRESENT ARMS!" The honor guard, stationed on either side of the Lord Holder and the Captain, instantly formed two rows, and, with a series of perfectly timed twirls, planted their swords in the ground in front of them, both hands on the hilt, parallel to their bodies. Triten was reminded of what an asset was to the High Reaches; no other major hold could boast such well trained guards.

The dragonmen began to walk down the center of the lines of soldiers, still partially clad in wher-hide riding gear. As they drew closer, Triten could see the lone bar on either shoulder of the brown-rider's jacket, signifying a wingsecond. The rider came to dead stop a few hands before Triten, and his wing stopped behind him.

"I appreciate the honor, Lord Holder, but it is unnecessary to have the majority of your watch here saluting us."

Triten gestured to Arando, who barked, with considerably less volume than his original order, "Stand to! Dismissed! Back to you posts!" The soldiers scattered. The Lord Holder respectfully introduced himself to the just-arrived brownrider.

"Good morning, dragonman. You are welcome in the High Reaches, and we are all at your service and that of your wing. I am, as I'm sure you know, Lord Holder Triten, and this is my Guard Captain, Master-at-Arms Arando."

"I'm pleased and honored to meet both of you. I am wingsecond K'mir, rider of brown Vendrith, of the High Reaches Weyr. Unfortunately, our Wingleader, bronze-rider Ga'len, is injured and unable to join us. We ride in Search, and request your permission for myself and my riders to access the Hold and crafthalls for the duration of our stay."

While it was slight breach in protocol, Triten knew, for the rider to jump straight to that request, it was extremely tactful. Traditionally, the next request would have been for K'mir to ask to convey his duty to Triten's lady or ladies, and Triten's wife had been dead for over five turns.

"Of course, Wingsecond. It is a great honor for your Weyr to have picked High Reaches as a location for a Search. I'll personally see to anything you might need. I'm sure Master Arando would also be more than pleased to help you in any way he can."

With that, K'mir and his wing trailed into the Hold, Triten and K'mir exchanging polite remarks.

* * *

Two hours ago, the dragonriders had begun systematically weaving through the High Reaches Hold, looking for not only likely boys, but also girls, between the ages of twelve and eighteen. There was, as Triten understood, a queen egg hardening on the Hatching Ground sands. K'mir and his men had noted several possible candidates, but, as of yet, had not definitively selected anyone. 

K'mir was saying to one of his comrades:

"Well, the Tanner's wife might have been a prospect had she been younger. What about the Journeyman Weaver's daughter?"

"Not in my opinion, K'mir. Not in my opinion."

"Fine. What about males? We can't forget that while there is a queen egg, there is only one queen egg, and dozens of other hatchlings that will need partners. Even if High Reaches desperately needs more golds, we can't forget the fighting dragons."

"There was the young man from the farmhold."

"Who are you speaking of?"

"The brown-haired, heavy set boy. Sturdy, stout. You remember him, surely."

"He was just a bully. We need real dedication for the... do you hear that?"

"Hear wha... oh, the music."

Lord Triten might have been going deaf in his old age, but he could, for whatever reason, still hear the drifting, remorseful tune coming from Master Harper Kial's classroom. He hadn't noticed it earlier because it was so common these days. That was Holder Legault's son, Coron, playing his violin. The boy really was unique: he was capable of producing such sound with no preparation or note sheets, but it was always sad. Oddly enough, it was Master Arando, not Master Harper Kial, who had theorized to Lord Triten that Coron's music came from the soul. Arando had elaborated by explaining that while Coron was a skilled and innovative swordsman, far surpassing any other young man in the class, only rarely did his spirit seep into his wrist. This seemed to be because something was bothering the boy, and that this was expressed in his music. Harper Kial, who taught music, seemed to agree with this idea, and so Lord Triten accepted it as fact.

K'mir turned to Lord Triten. "I've never heard a sound quite like that. What is it?"

"It's a violin," replied Triten. "It's a rarely used or heard-of instrument that Master Harper Kial found in his craft records. It's quite a bit like a gitar, actually, except that it is used with a kind of a bow instead of a pick or free fingers."

"Fascinating. I'd very much like to listen to this song. It seems... mournful."

"It is. Coron, the boy who uses the violin, always plays in that manner and tone."

"Really..." K'mir began to walk towards the large teaching room, where Coron was playing his instrument. The Lord Holder and the other dragonman followed the wingsecond for about a half-length, when they reached the doorway. Noiselessly, the three slipped inside, listening to the tune.

Coron sat in his wooden chair, now centered in the room, facing the exit, but his eyes were closed, chin resting on the butt of the violin as he played. Master Harper Kial, who sat beside Coron, noticed their entrance and started as he recognized them, but did not make a sound otherwise. The other dozen or so children (all young, the older boys didn't attend such concerts), were seating in a semicircle around Coron, captivated by the noises his playing produced.

The boy had grown in the past few turns, and while not tall or broad shouldered, he was of a respectable, perhaps slightly above-average height. His hair was still dark as ever, and he had a light tan from working outside with his father. He wasn't handsome, nor intimidating, but Triten has always fancied that there was something about, something in his eyes, that gave him an awesome presence. Something about him, something you'd couldn't see or touch or smell, made Coron stand out among his peers.

They must have stood there for ten minutes, listening to the shifting sound, gentle and sad, of the violin, before Coron finally stopped playing and opened his eyes. The young children burst into applause, and Lord Holder Triten was surprised to find himself applauding as well. Master Harper Kial stood and rushed over to greet his guests as soon as the music stopped, but Coron simply stared lifelessly at them, as though he was blind.

As Kial issued hurried welcomes and apologies. Coron stood and bowed once, then retook his seat. K'mir was saying: "No, no my good Harper. It's I who should be sorry for interrupting the recital. I'll be back later on Search business, but I just wanted to listen."

"I'm honored that you'd listen to my poor music, dragonman."

Triten turned to see Coron, who had somehow already packed his violin, gotten back to his feet, and walked over towards the exit.

"You're an extremely good player, young Coron. And I've never seen an instrument quite like that."

"Thank you, sir. Unfortunately, I've got something to attend to. I'll be off."

There was momentary silence, save the young children chatting excited amongst themselves at the arrival of dragonmen. However, Coron had no sooner stepped outside when his voice again rung out through the room.

"Sir!"

A chuckle and a familiar "Stand to!" followed.

K'mir quickly exited the room, Triten following, and the two saw the Weapons Master standing before Coron, an amused smile on his face. Coron, for his part, had managed to salute Arando, despite the notable handicap of having to handle a large, wooden violin case.

Arando was saying, "I suppose you'll always salute me, and there's nothing I can do to change that, is there?" The giant's smile grew. "I'll see you during sparring class this afternoon."

At that point, K'mir jumped into the conversation, as if he'd had an epiphany. "You have a sparring class? And doubtless, all the able-bodied young men will attend."

"Indeed I do. And yes, many of them do. Ah, I see. You intend to Search during my class?"

"Yes, with your leave, Weapons Master. I and few others will drop in sometime."

"You've my permission. I suppose I'll see you then, as well."

* * *

"They sound like they've got a sparring match going on in there." 

Triten and K'mir, along with another four wingriders, were standing outside the training room, ready for their visit, listening to the sounds coming from within. The clash of metal was unmistakable.

"Odd."remarked Lord Triten. "They usually use wooden weapons. Clashing steel? Only the higher-level students would use blunted metal weapons."

"Well," said K'mir, "Let's stop discussing it and find out." With that, the dragonman pushed open the door to the sparring arena. Inside, none other than Weapons Master Arando and Coron, facing each other, each holding naked blades, though both were visibly blunted, as if never sharpened.

Arando was saying, "An excellent display of the defensive technique, Coron. Now, I'm going to show you something new. All of you older boys, watch carefully, I'll be making execute this maneuver in a few minutes. As for you younger fellows, well, you'll be able to do this in about a turn. Just watch." Arando saw and understood something in Coron that everyone could feel, but no one could pinpoint. It was only when Arando coached him that Triten could swear that there was fire in Coron's eyes.

Unlike at the concert, when no one had so much as looked at the entering Lord Holder and dragonmen, every head in the room seemed to turn to look at the trio. Arando's eyes flickered briefly towards them, but were in an instant back on his opponent. Coron didn't even flinch. As Arando and Coron both set their swords level, ready to tap the two instruments and begin the battle, a chatter rose up among the twenty-odd young men with regards to the Searchers. "ATTENTION!" demanded Arando. The room went instantly silent.

A metallic clang rang out in the room. The two weapons had touched. The bout was underway. Coron immediately went on the offensive, at a distance attacking the Weapons Master with a series of combination feints and real strokes. Oddly, instead of attempting to riposte on an attack, Arando simply kept his ground and countered every stroke that came within his zone of defense. After a few odd moments of pure blocking, Arando began to advance on his opponent, closing ground. In what seemed an irrational maneuver, Coron then jumped back, set his blade perpendicular to the ground, ran two fingers of his left hand along the tip, and charged forward. What happened next was too fast for Triten to follow, but a split-second later, the tip of Coron's weapon was resting on Arando's chest, and Arando's blade had come down on Coron's shoulder. Arando backed away.

"That's what I wanted to show you. Can anyone tell me what I did? Yes, Hennel?"

"I believe, sir, that your blade is shorter than Coron's."

"Very astute of you, Hennel. Yes, this sword is a hand and a half shorter than the standard length. The reasoning is simple: a shorter blade is lighter. As long as you don't cut it down to the point of uselessness, shorter swords are excellent at defense, as you can move then so much faster than a full-length one. Coron seemed to recognize this earlier on, as he did the only thing he could, a straight, guided charge. Now, I believe that, in a real battle, he would have killed me and he would have been merely wounded, but his technique is very refined, and I'm a rather large target. Offensively, you can use a short blade to keep closing ground between you and your opponent, staying untouched behind it, until you start hacking away at his wrists."

As he sheathed his blade, Arando said, "Later we'll go more into depth about varying length of blades and changing strategy. Longswords in a few hours." Triten almost chuckled as he thought about Arando using the short blade. Though agile, Arando had almost no use for the weapon, as it couldn't shield the entirety of his massive form. Compared to the gigantic double-edged battleaxe the man occasionally bore, the weapon looked like a dagger.

The good Weapons Master continued his speech, uninterrupted by Triten's private thougthts. "Until then, it looks like we're going to take a brief break in today's lesson." Arando then gestured courteously to K'mir, who stepped forward, his typical dragonrider garb giving away the purpose of his visit.

"Hello. I am Wingsecond K'mir, rider of the brown Vendrith. I'm here on Search."

The effect was instantaneous. Every boy in the room, except Corin (who had yet to sit down), began excitedly chattering. Triten cast his eye over the crowd of boys and easily picked out blonde Hennel, who seemed to be listening to the ambitions of another boy next to him. It would be perfect if Hennel were searched. That way, Talc, his remaining elder brother, would become Lord Holder and not have to worry about what to do with Triten's youngest son.  
K'mir gestured for silence, and, after a few moments, the room had quieted to the point where he could make himself heard. "We're only looking for young men under the age of eighteen turns, and older than twelve turns. If you are too young or too old, please step back." He paused. No one stepped back. "Everyone in here is between twelve and eighteen?" he asked Arando. The Master nodded.

"Alright then."

What followed was a few moments of anarchy followed by absolute order. In mere seconds, the youths had organized themselves into reasonably orderly rows. Triten noticed an older farmholder's son, whose name he couldn't quite remember, thrusting his chest forward, practically jumping up and down. That brought a smile to the Lord Holder's face, but it quickly faded as he remembered that most of these young men would be deemed unacceptable.

Arando advanced to the front of the sparring ring, and then joined the men standing by the door. K'mir's wingmen advanced, and began to examine the candidates there aligned. Arando immediately questioned K'mir about this action, his voice softened to a volume that Triten had thought impossible from the loud, booming titan.

"Shouldn't you be joining them?"

"Unfortunately, no." K'mir looked rather sheepish. "Vendrith isn't known for his Searching ability. The other dragons in my wing are far better at detecting promise or talent."

"Why then don't take the boys out to your dragons?"

"That would be a little better, but rider and dragon are bonded in such a way that the dragon can sense potential through the rider, if that makes sense."

"It sounds fairly incredible."

As the two men's exchange drifted into small-talk, Triten turned his attention to the Searchers. The three dragonmen were weaving through the rows, not exactly systematically, looking here and there. Lord Holder Triten's heart practically stopped as one of the men cast his eye on Hennel. The boy simply sat there, returning the gaze, until the rider moved on. Triten felt disappointment well up, but consoled himself in the idea that this might not be a rejection. They hadn't exactly picked any of the other boys yet.

Arando and K'mir's chattering became white noise to Triten as he watched the ritual take place. These young men were the cream of High Reaches' crop, as it were. After the Riverbend Armistice, these boys had been hardy, brave, or dedicated enough to stay on learning the fine art of warfare and conquest. Yes, the younger children were only taught defense, as Arando had once pointed out, but the older boys were truly educated in swordplay, and, later, in the use of other weaponry. The Nabol-High Reaches war had claimed the lives of a hundred combined guards and militia from the High Reaches territories and holds. Knowing how to fight wasn't an option any more. It was a necessity.

The movement of the third, and seemingly most deliberate of the men, caught Triten's eye. He had advanced past the back row, towards where Coron was now standing alone, in the sparring ring. The dragonrider spent about five seconds looking at the young boy before turning and practically bolting towards Triten. No, the Lord Holder realized. Towards K'mir. Suddenly, as he realized what was likely occurring, what K'mir was saying became all-important.

"So, Master-at-Arms, do you always carry a shortsword?"

"Hm? I'm not carrying such a weapon."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. There's one on your belt." K'mir pointed to a long, sinister-looking weapon, carried in a half-sheath on Arando's belt.

"That's my belt-knife, actually." K'mir narrowly stifled a surprised profanity.

"That is longer than a wherry-skewer. I wouldn't have believed-"

"Wingsecond!" The man had trotted across the room, fast as he could go through the mass of people.

"Yes?"

The other rider's voice dropped to a loud whisper, causing Triten to have to strain to hear him."I may have a candidate, sir."

"Who?"

"The young man the good Guard Captain was sparring with."

"Ah, you mean Coron? I already know Vendrith approves, but that's no indication. Cross-check with your fellow wingmen. He certainly seems like a prime pick."

Triten's gaze fixed on the man as he galloped back over to his peers. He drew them away from their own Searching and whispered excitedly to them. Another infinitely long moment of examination passed before the three came over to K'mir, seemingly eager to report.

"I approve totally of him, K'mir."

"Very well. And you?"

"Fenwrath has a problem with the boy, actually."

"Which is?"

"He seems like a likely choice, but Fenwrath thinks that he is disturbed at heart."

"Vendrith has been continuously expressing his approval ever since we met him. He may not be renowned for his certainty during Search, but I've rarely heard Vendrith this certain of anything. We'll bring him as a candidate for Impression. Then, the hatchlings can decide for themselves, as they don't seem to make mistakes."

All three men seemed to consent to this.

"Keep Searching through the other boys. Hopefully we'll bring more than one candidate from the High Reaches today." Though K'mir did not directly say that the men were dismissed, they acted on the implicit command and returned to their scrupulous, if disorderly, Search.

Triten thought that K'mir would immediately go and inform Coron of his candidacy, but instead turned to face Arando. Once again, the weyrman's voice was a mere whisper.

"What do you think?"

"Of Coron?" Arando was equally silent, and Triten again marveled at how low the massive man could keep his voice.

"Yes."

"He's the most level-headed and honest lad I know, but he's dark and broody too. I think your wingman was right when he said that the boy was disturbed at heart. Even so, he's my star pupil and I'd really hate to see him go. I had him marked for Weapons Master of the Hold some day."

"I take it that means that he's brave? Brave enough to ride a fighting dragon?"

"I don't know if brave is the right word. He's apathetic to danger. He rarely shows real emotion when he's pushed into a corner..." For some reason, Arando winced at his choice of words and quickly corrected himself. "When he's in a dangerous situation, he's steady as a mountain. Why, I couldn't tell you. But he is. I can't say he'd make a good dragonman, though."

"Why not?"

"It's just a feeling, I suppose. He's not a social person; he's not handsome, or strong, or tall."

"But he's got determination."

"You could call it that."

"Then he's good enough for me."

"May I ask you something?"

"Hm?"

"Why didn't you have a conference telepathically rather than meeting together like that?"

"Oh, it's rather complicated between more than two people and tends to not work well. Besides, I wanted you to hear. I'm going to go... inform young Coron of the honor that has been bestowed upon him. Lord Holder Triten, if you'd join me?"

"By all means," responded Triten, and, together, the two approached the young man. How strange, thought Triten, Coron looks. From a different angle, he might have stood out among the boys, but, observed from the front of the room, he was more or less concealed behind his peers. He stood quietly, and Triten could have sworn that the there was that _something_ in his eyes again, that gave him a certain aura of power and dignity, that made people respect him. He wasn't intimidating, standing almost two full hands below his rather large father, Holder Legault, who Triten knew well.

Heads among the boys turned as they made their way to the back of the rows, trying to determine who the riders had picked out for candidacy. A small chatter arose from among the boys as they approached Coron, who only slightly moved his eyes and head to acknowledge their presence.

Lord Holder Triten smiled. "Coron... a great honor has been bestowed upon you today."

K'mir broke in at this point. "Young man, you've been chosen as a candidate."

Coron inclined his head deeply. "It is a great honor, Wingsecond K'mir."

Arando, who had appeared from the other side of the room as though he had had a brief jaunt _between_, began to speak. "You'll need to gather your things. Here, I'll escort you home. I know Holder Legault well, and he'll be overwhelmed by the news, I'm sure. Come on."

Coron saluted, as though following orders, and followed the Weapons Master out of the room.

* * *

An hour passed, the dragonmen double and triple-checked each boy, as though to be absolutely certain of the choices they made. The dragonmen held one more conference at the end of their search, exchanging notes on certain boys, who Lord Holder Triten helped to name. (His heart jumped as one mentioned Hennel.) However, the dragonriders could not reach a mutual consensus on any one additional boy to take on the Search, and so, no others were taken. 

The conference circle of five men, Triten included, broke, and the Lord Holder was certain that K'mir would now announce the end of the Search, or at least dismiss the boys assembled here. However, the wingsecond surprised Triten again as he turned to speak to Triten privately.

"I notice you keep looking at the blonde boy in the center. Hennel, I think you said his name is?"

"Yes, it is. He's my youngest son."

"Would you like us to take him on Search?"

"Please, don't on my account. Take him if he's worthy of the honor, not as a favor."

"Well, this is a little awkward, but the reason why we're Searching at all is because we don't have enough Weyrbred boys to provide a partner for each hatching dragon. In fact, each wing has orders to pick at least two candidates from the major hold it visits. So, in reality, we need another candidate from the High Reaches Hold. I think Hennel would be just fine."

"In that case, that would work out perfectly. Coron and Hennel are good friends, and this way, we won't be separating them."

"Excellent. I'll consult a few of my fellow riders..."

K'mir went and talked to each man separately, one for considerably longer than the other two, but at length came back to Triten.

"Hennel seems to be an acceptable choice. Shall we?"

"Yes, let's." And, on the day after everything had gone wrong, everything had gone right. And Lord Holder Triten smiled.

* * *

/To contrast with the first chapter, I wrote this in two _months _as opposed to two days. I originally thought that I'd get it done in time for Christmas Day: pull another two-dayer. Then I thought I'd have it out by New Years... and now it's February. Anyway, I'm relatively satisfied with this chapter. Oh, and in the beginning, if you were wondering who The Raven is, he's not really relevant to the story. I also think I overdid it a little with the violin.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


End file.
